


Inktober 2018 Prompts

by IrisPurpurea



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud, Merlin (TV), Parks and Recreation
Genre: Bisexual Ginny Weasley, Bisexual Hermione Granger, Bisexual Oliver Wood, Bisexual Percy Weasley, Everyone's Bisexual, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Inktober 2018, Inktober Drabbles, M/M, Multi, Multiple Fandoms, Multiple Pairings, bisexual Ben Wyatt, it's 2018
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-07-28 01:07:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16231031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisPurpurea/pseuds/IrisPurpurea
Summary: Fanfiction inspired by the Inktober 2018 prompts. Some of them turned out too long to be drabbles. Multiple fandoms. I'll post the prompt as the title, ratings/warnings, fandom and any pairings in the notes. I'm writing one every day, but I'll be posting sporadically and will have everything up before December.UPDATE: I’ve turned this into a series, so I’ll no longer be updating this work. But I’ll be adding the rest of the chapters to the series Inktober 2018! https://archiveofourown.org/series/1216947





	1. Poisonous

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1: Poisonous. Rating: Mature. Fandoms: Fantastic Beasts films and Harry Potter books. Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald.

It’s imperceptible at first, buried beneath heady sweetness, mulled wine and honey and the fervent burn of firewhiskey mingling in his throat. Their days together are feverish and tinged with gold.

Albus reads in his armchair by the fire and he’s squeezed in beside him, legs across his lap and arms around his chest, face pressed into the crook of his neck, sleepy and still but stirring every so often to press his lips to his collarbone. He folds himself further into him; they twist around each other like trees growing too close in a forest.

The sweetness lingers long on his tongue, they lie in the sunlight and the prickly grass on the hill behind the cottage, fingers intertwined as they sketch their dreams into the blue sky. They could restore balance, order, prosperity, peace. They could conquer death. They could reshape the whole world in their image. He says something brilliant and Gel laughs loud and harsh and rolls on top of him to catch his face and kiss him until he’s drunk and stumbling. They could build something beautiful together.

From the moment they meet they are binary stars, drawn by each other’s brilliance, collapsing into each other. Every accidental brush of their fingers or knees is incendiary. After a mere week together, he can hardly take it anymore and he draws him close and threads his fingers through his golden hair. They tangle together, his lips on his neck and his fingers splayed across his abdomen. He’s never had this before, this freedom to spill his every thought to another brilliant mind and to pour out his heart to a kindred soul, this longing to be close to him all the time, this real, tangible chance to leave the life he dreads behind. They find in each other a match for unmatched brilliance, a true believer in their wildest ambitions. Power and promise, together, they are unfettered, unrestrained, and deeply understood. 

They sit against the wall with their legs woven together, lazy and warm and drawing strange-looking eyes in the dust on the floor. He's forgotten to sweep again, but it hardly matters. A line in the dust, his eyes gleam oddly; raw, unimaginable power, but only for whichever one of them catches hold of it first. He leaves a soft kiss on his cheek and a swooping in his stomach. A circle around the line; all his burdens dissolved. And an unconquerable army, he adds, with a trail of kisses along his jaw, a brush of his thigh, the pop of a button. A triangle in the dust, connected to the line and circle. Unremarkable, unnecessary. No, he counters, a hand on his chest. We need all three. We could hide her, keep her safe. We'd be... free... forever... their foreheads together, his knees pressed against his hips, his hands on his skin and his hands in his hair, their lips meeting, again and again.

Shot after shot of firewhiskey, burning in his chest and sending flames dancing across his skin. He clings to him, pulls him ever closer, and he drinks, he drinks, he drinks. He drinks through the bitterness rising in his throat, swallowing it back down, drinks through the sharp pain of shattered glass in his stomach. He drinks until his brother and sister are screaming for him to stop, until his gut wrenches and he finds himself choking, _don’t kill them, please, kill me instead. Kill me, kill me._

He is everything, he is sweetness and delirium and aching temptation. What wouldn’t he give to reach into the Mirror of Erised? His skin still prickles to think of him, longing burning in the pit of his stomach. What wouldn’t he sacrifice for just one more taste?

Would he die, just a little?


	2. Tranquil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set at the end of Season 3 Episode 8: Camping. Andy and April go stargazing on the lawn outside the Quiet Corn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 - Tranquil. Rating: General Audiences. Parks and Recreation fandom, April Ludgate/Andy Dwyer.

“Babe, didn’t you ever learn how to read the stars?”  
“No. I hate being outside. The grass is too dewy, the whole back of my thighs is damp –  
“Oh here, you can lay on top of my jacket –  
“The air is too fresh, it’s disgusting.”  
“I know, babe. But the stars are cool.”  
“Yeah, I guess. They’re like… thousands of little bat eyes, staring at me through the darkness. Maybe they’ll drink my blood.”  
“See, that’s the spirit!”

…

“D’you know what that is?”  
“Yeah, babe, that’s your hand in my face.”  
“Oh, no, I mean that. That blob of stars over there? That’s Ursula Major. From the Little Mermaid.”  
“Really? Oh my god.”  
“Yeah, that’s right. ‘Cuz she was an evil sea witch, yeah, who took the Little Mermaid’s voice. And she wouldn’t give it back. And this dude, I think his name was Eric, he stabbed her.”  
“No way.”  
“And she died, and the sea gods were, like, really sad about it. So, they named a constellation after her, and that’s why Ursula Major looks like a dead fish.”  
“But why’s she called Ursula Major?”  
“Well, her name was Ursula. And she was, like, a major dick.”  
“You’re so smart, babe.”

…

“Andy?”  
“Yeah, hon?”  
“What’s that one?”  
“What’s which one?”  
“That one. By that creepy tree. See? The one with the branches that look like corpse hands? Giving a gnarly middle finger to that orangey-looking star?”  
“Ah, yes. That, m’dear, is… Saturn.”  
“Really? That’s Saturn?”  
“Yep. It’s orange cuz, you know, Saturn’s also orange.”  
“Of course.”

…

"Isn't Saturn supposed to have rings though?"  
"Yeah, you're right, babe. It's probably Mars or something. Stupid Mars. It's just a sad little rock."  
"But babe, Mars has aliens on it!"  
"... I guess that's kinda cool..."  
"Saturn definitely doesn't have aliens on it. I mean, it's a gaseous planet with no surface to stand on. No liquid water or breathable atmosphere. And its gravitational pull is insane, aliens definitely couldn't survive there."  
"How'd you know all that?"  
"Yeah. I know things."

...

"It's getting colder out."  
"Good, that means I might get frostbite. They'll have to chop off my nose. Like Lord Voldemort!"  
"Shh, babe, don't say his name so loud!"  
"Whatever, he's dead. He got killed by a scrawny teenager. What a dumbass."  
"Ah, you're right. Plus, you're way hotter than Voldemort. You'd be way hotter than Voldemort even without a nose."  
"Aww, babe, that's so sweet!"

...

"I love you."  
"I love you too, sweetheart."  
"You wanna go make out some more in the tent?"  
"Yes, please, I can't feel my toes."


	3. Roasted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leslie finds out that Ben has never before roasted a marshmallow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: Roasted. Rating: General Audiences. Fandom: Parks and Recreation. Leslie Knope/Ben Wyatt.

“You… don’t?” Ben had expected Leslie to look surprised, but the expression on her face was far worse than surprise. She looked genuinely concerned. Betrayed, even. Ben finds he’s taken a step back from her, pushed away by the waves of shock radiating from her.

“I just… I never have, Leslie, I’m… I’m sorry?” Ben has no idea what to say to her. She hasn’t made this face at him since the first day they met, since he suggested Jerry Gergich be fired. Her nose is scrunched up, her fists clenched at her sides. 

When she speaks, her voice is dangerously low. “How… Benjamin Wyatt… how could you not… how could you have never –

“Just… just calm down, hon, okay?” Leslie takes a step forward and he leaps backward and collides painfully with a stack of boxes. “I just… I just don’t know, hon, I’m sorry.”

A few seconds of tense silence pass between them. Ben is frozen on the spot, Leslie taking deep, heaving breaths. Then, slowly, her fists unclench, her face relaxes. Ben lowers his hands. “Ok,” Leslie says, running a hand through her hair. “Ok, ok, I can fix this. Just… just give me a minute.” She darts forward to plant a quick kiss on his cheek and in the next second, the garage door slams. 

“What just…” The door slams again, and Leslie is back in a whirlwind, dumping a bundle form her arms onto the couch, shucking off her coat, and kneeling in front of the fireplace, pulling wads of crumpled newspaper from a bulging purse. “What on earth…” Ben can only stare as Leslie pulls a log out of her bag, because of course she can somehow fit multiple logs in her purse. “Wait, did you have those in there the whole – 

She waves away the question. “Just grab those skewers, grab the bag of jumbo marshmallows, and get over here,” she snaps. She still sounds vaguely angry at him, and Ben has no choice but to comply. He snatches two skewers from the pile on the couch and the bag of jumbo marshmallows, upsetting several large chocolate bars in the process. Leslie is busy trying to get a fire going, her hair falling over her face as she mutters to herself. Watching her, Ben’s heart swells, warmth flooding his stomach. A fire springs up in the fireplace and he settles beside her, the fabric of his dress pants pulling uncomfortably around his knees, and he can’t resist setting the bag of marshmallows down to tuck her hair behind her ear and kiss her cheek. Her determined expression softens as she looks over at him. 

“I just…” she shakes her head, “How on earth have you never roasted marshmallows before?”

Ben shrugs. “It’s just not something we did as kids, growing up, you know? Family camping trips just… weren’t a thing. And… you might be the only adult person I’ve met who actually makes s’mores…”

She shoves him with her shoulder, giggling. “Yeah, well, I’ve never understood why more people don’t just carry emergency s’mores rations in their car. I mean, it’s chocolate, sticky marshmallows, graham crackers… what’s not to love? It’s the ultimate comfort food.” 

Ben gives her a soft smile, and then she’s handing him a skewer and a fat marshmallow, showing him the exact depth to which he should insert the skewer and the precise angle and height at which to hold it for “maximum golden-brown gooiness.” They sit in silence for a while, knees pressed together, Leslie’s head on his shoulder, watching the crackling fire, slowly turning their marshmallows before them. When they’ve reached appropriate levels of golden-brown gooiness, per Leslie’s meticulous standards, they blow on their marshmallows to cool them, then Leslie bites the whole thing off her skewer, to Ben’s surprise.

“You see,” she explains thickly, cheeks bulging, “it’s tradition to eat at least the first one. Go on, you try!” Ben raises an eyebrow at her, eyeing his marshmallow dubiously, before shrugging and taking a careful bite out of the top. 

It isn’t bad, he’s surprised to find. It’s hot, sticky, vaguely smoky, and not unbearably sweet. Leslie’s eyeing him expectantly, so he grins at her, plucks the rest of the marshmallow from his skewer, and plops it into his mouth, licking his sticky thumb. 

“Yay! Ben’s first marshmallow!” Leslie laughs, reaching for her phone to snap a quick picture. “This’ll go in the housewarming scrapbook for sure!” Of course she’s already planning a housewarming scrapbook. Ben looks at her, her face glowing in the firelight, her blue eyes dancing. It hits him in that moment; he’s moving into this house with this woman, his beautiful fiancé. He pulls her close to kiss her, tasting smoking sugar on her lips. It’s a while before they can pull away from each other, threading their fingers together, and he’s basking in Leslie’s soft smile. 

“Well… I’m glad you enjoyed the marshmallow so much,” she finally says, and he laughs, squeezing her hand. “But we have yet to make you an actual s’more.”  
“Right, yeah, let’s get on that,” Ben agrees, grinning at her as he reaches for another marshmallow.

They make three s’mores apiece and soon there’s chocolate all around Leslie’s mouth, which Ben is compelled to kiss away. They burn a final marshmallow apiece, which almost sets Ben’s sleeve on fire. Then their arms are around each other, legs tangled together before the waning fire, Leslie’s fuzzy-sock-clad feet nudging his from time to time. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I love you and I like you.”

“I love you and I like you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sick, so I haven't posted for a while, but hoping to get back on track now!


	4. Spell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It looks like they've finally invented a spell Hermione Granger can't do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: Spell. Rating: General Audiences. Fandom: Harry Potter. Pairings: Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger, Harry Potter/Cho Chang.

It looks like someone’s finally invented a spell Hermione Granger can’t do.

Another feeble wisp of silvery smoke puffs from her wand and dissipates into the air. Hermione stamps her foot in frustration, shoving her hair away from her face. The collar of her blouse feels stiff and tight around her neck, she feels flushed and prickly and probably red and quite sure that dwelling on her happiest memories shouldn’t be making her feel so frustrated.

Across the room, a stallion blooms from Ginny’s wand and canters towards the ceiling as she laughs in delight. Fred claps her proudly on the shoulder and George musses her hair until she shoves them both away, giggling. “Fantastic, Ginny!” Harry calls to her. Luna next to her is playing some sort of game with her silver hare. Hermione watches as Harry turns back to Cho, awkwardly guiding her arm with three fingers around her elbow and saying something to her in a low voice. Moments later, a swan bursts from her wand and Harry grins at her, his hand hovering a centimeter over her shoulder as if he’s unsure what to do with it. Cho’s eyes are shining as he gives her another quick smile and walks over to the Patil twins.

Hermione clenches her wand and closes her eyes, rolling her shoulders and trying to breathe deeply. Her chest is tight, her neck straining with the effort. “Come on,” she mutters. “Relax, damn it. Think of… last week, when McGonagall told everyone how brilliant your spellwork was… come on, come on… _Expecto Patronum!_ ” 

A faint whoosh tells her she was unsuccessful. She sighs and opens her eyes, watching the silvery wisps curl away into nothing. Neville hasn’t produced a corporeal Patronus yet, but he’s barely visible behind a shield of white light, his blurry face screwed up in joy and concentration and effort. The shield vanishes, and Harry just catches him as he stumbles forward. Neville smiles feebly at him, panting from the strain. Even Neville’s closer to a full Patronus than she is.

“Harry! I did it!” There’s a shout from behind her and she spins around to find an ecstatic Ron holding his wand aloft, watching a silver terrier gambol around his head. “Excellent, Ron!” Harry calls to him, just as a giant boar bursts from Ernie MacMillan’s wand. Hermione is startled to feel tears stinging the corners of her eyes. She swipes a hand over her face hastily, taking heaving breaths to calm herself down. What on earth was happening to her?

“Hermione?” Harry’s walking towards her, frowning. “How’re you getting on?”

“Badly,” Hermione sighs, raking her hair back from her face again. “I’ve done loads of NEWT level spellwork, Harry! I’ve done far more intricate magic than this! Why isn’t this working?”

Harry absently runs a hand through his hair. “Well, what’ve you been thinking about? My first time trying, I thought about riding a broom, and it wasn’t nearly strong enough. Maybe that’s your problem.”

“I’ve tried everything! I used to try to levitate books off the top shelf at the library as a girl, I was so pleased when I finally managed it, so I thought about that first. I’ve thought about the Sorting Hat putting me in Gryffindor, McGonagall praising me in class, even… dancing with Viktor at the Yule Ball! And nothing’s working!” She can hear her voice pitching and she winces slightly, but she’s just about fed up with this spell. Harry gives her a sympathetic smile.

“Alright, well, I’m here to help now. So,” he stands beside her, one hand on her shoulder to steady her. “The first thing to do is to just relax.”

“Right, because I hadn’t thought of that before,” she snaps. Harry just grins at her. He seems to be enjoying teaching her how to do something for a change.

“Right, yeah, you’ve never been good at relaxing, have you? But just close your eyes and try. Take a slow breath.”

Hermione does her best to follow his instructions, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, blocking out the rest of the room. The laughter and shouts of her classmates slowly fade away.

“See,” Harry says from far away, “I think your problem is that you’re thinking too hard, Hermione. Lots of complex magic involves focus and concentration, thinking hard enough about something that you will it to happen. But it’s not enough to just think about your memories, focus hard on them, and try to will them into existence. You’ve got to feel them too, feel them filling you up.” When did Harry become so knowledgeable about magical theory? And when did Harry become such a patient teacher?

“And another thing is,” Harry continues, “it doesn’t have to be a specific memory either. It can be a feeling, or a sound, or a face. Mine, well… most of the time, I see you.”

Hermione’s eyes fly open in surprise. Harry looks a little uncomfortable. “Well, you and Ron. When those Dementors attacked me this summer… I thought of you and I thought of Ron, and that’s what made my Patronus so strong.”

“But… how? Harry…” Hermione frowns at him. “I mean, with… well, everything that’s happened to you… how – how do you make it all go away?”

“You mean how can I summon so much happiness when my life is so miserable?” Harry raises an eyebrow at her.

“No! No, I just meant…” Hermione trails off, wincing. “Sorry…”

Harry grins. “It’s okay, I get it.” He thinks for a moment, staring down at his shoes. “Dementors… they don’t just suck the happiness out of you. They… they take away your will to live. They make you feel like… like the best thing to do, the only thing to do… is to give up… and let them take you.” 

“Oh, Harry…”

"A Patronus, then,” Harry continues, meeting her eyes, “is made from the things that keep you alive. The things you would fight and die for… the people you love most in the world.” 

“So, think of… something like that. It doesn’t have to be specific. It doesn’t have to be detailed. Just focus on something that keeps you alive. And try again.”

Hermione feels tears stinging her eyes again. Harry’s hand is still firm on her shoulder, and she brings her free hand to it. Harry gives her a fond smile. “Come on, Hermione. You’re not going to lose to Zacharias Smith, now, are you?”

Hermione laughs, squeezing his hand. She understands now, she thinks. Because Harry, who watched Cedric Diggory die, who barely survived a duel with Lord Voldemort mere months ago, who’s been disparaged and demonized and tortured all year, can still call upon such a profound happiness within him that he can cast a Patronus with ease. She needed something powerful, something that flooded her with deep, primal joy. Something that keeps her alive.

She nods at Harry and closes her eyes and imagines the faces of Harry and Ron. Running to embrace them after waking up in the Hospital Wing and learning that they had defeated the Basilisk. Rolling her eyes at their grateful exclamations as she pulls their astronomy essays across the table to read over them. Grasping Ron’s hand tightly for what seemed like hours after Harry and Cedric’s body fell from the maze, his other arm set firmly around her shoulders as they sat at Harry’s bedside. Surprising even herself by kissing Harry on the cheek as they parted ways at King’s Cross station.

Then Ginny’s face swims into view, sitting with her on the train as they wondered where Harry and Ron were, sprawling across her bed as she complains about how obtuse Harry can be. Ginny flinging her arms around her when she turned up at Grimmauld Place over Christmas. Then Fred and George are there, each pulling her into a hug as soon as Ginny lets go of her, playing with Crookshanks, teaching her to play Gobstones. Then her parents are embracing her as she leaves King’s Cross, laughing as they pull her to her feet in the snow. Warmth courses through her.

Her mind wanders back to a few weeks ago, an afternoon spent in the bright, newly scrubbed and decorated kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Warmth, laughter, and people she loves. The Weasleys, Harry, Sirius, Remus, and even Mad-Eye Moody crowded around the table for a proper feast, their first since Arthur came home from St. Mungo’s. Sirius’s booming laughter, Ginny and Harry chatting about Quidditch, Fred and George feeding Crookshanks bits of turkey. Arthur brushing Molly’s hair behind her ear and whispering to her when he thought no one could see them, making her giggle and blush. Ron’s shoulder brushing against hers every now and then, both of them jumping apart when their fingers touch.   
Hermione can feel herself beginning to smile, Harry squeezing her shoulder. “Go on,” he whispers.

She opens her eyes, her heart swelling fit to burst. She whispers it, as though her bubble may break if she spoke too loudly. _Expecto Patronum._

Silver smoke billows from her wand and solidifies into a slim, fluid shape. An otter swims around her head as she looks on, astonished. “I did it! I got it!” Harry pats her on the shoulder. “Excellent, Hermione, well done!” 

“An otter,” she whispers to herself. Her favorite animal to watch at the zoo as a child, graceful and intelligent. Of course, it had to be an otter.

It’s different, she knows, in this bright, warm room full of people. It’s not the same as facing down a real Dementor. Hermione still doesn’t know what it’s like to have to search for happiness and cling to it in the face of insurmountable darkness long enough to shield yourself from despair. And there’s a war on, and her best friend is caught in the middle of it, and Hermione may have to face that darkness soon. But this…

Ron’s silver terrier gallops towards her, chasing her otter to the ceiling. Ron runs to her side in pursuit of it and they laugh, watching the otter swim around a chandelier, the terrier stumbling after it. Their fingers brush as the silver shapes twist and fade in midair.

This is definitely a start.


	5. Chicken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months after Lucy left them, Lockwood, George, and Holly are out on another case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 5: Chicken. Rating: Teen and Up. Fandom: Lockwood and Co. Implied Lucy Carlyle/Anthony Lockwood.

“That’s… a chicken.” George takes off his spectacles, rubs them on his jacket, and peers through them again. “Is anyone else seeing this? Am I going crazy, or is that… a chicken?” Holly rips up another floorboard and the atmosphere prickles, the cold air sharpening around them. Lockwood holds up a hand to stop her.

It is indeed a chicken, mere yards away, black legs and beak and pure white feathers. But this chicken is standing stock-still – aren’t chickens usually quite fidgety? – and giving off a strange, pearly, greenish sheen. It’s staring straight at them. Odd behavior for a chicken. They’re standing by the opposite wall, within a large circle of heavy iron chains. Holly’s still holding her crowbar. They stare wordlessly at it for a few moments. It stares wordlessly back.

In a sudden flurry of movement, startling Holly and George, Lockwood flings a handful of iron filings from the pocket of his coat at the spectral chicken. The iron rips through its form and the chicken dissolves as a wave of psychic energy smacks them, sending the three of them staggering backward, clutching their heads. An instant later, the chicken reappears in the same spot by the bed, stock-still, staring straight at them with gleaming eyes. It doesn’t even twitch. Very odd behavior for a chicken.

“Well!” Lockwood claps his hands together, rubbing them in fierce excitement. “This is fascinating! We’ve never fought a chicken before, have we, George?”  
George pinches the bridge of his nose, stamping his foot in frustration. “Lockwood… if you’d just let me do more research – 

“But we’d never have been surprised, then, George!” Lockwood exclaims, almost snaps as he spins to face him. “And what’s life without a little adventure?” His eyes are dangerously bright. George can only nod faintly. 

“That’s it, George, that’s the spirit!” Lockwood claps him on the shoulder so hard he reverberates like a gong – or perhaps he’s just shaking from the cold, as the temperature has just dropped about ten degrees.

The chicken tips its head at them but otherwise doesn’t move a muscle.

Holly knows by now that George’s face is usually quite expressionless, so she’s startled when he looks over at her with deep concern evident in his eyes. He gestures wordlessly towards Lockwood’s back. Holly can only shake her head back.

“Right!” Lockwood claps his hands together, jolting Holly and George out of their silent communication. The chicken doesn’t flinch, but a blast of cold air slams into them, shifting the chains a few centimeters across the floor. “Sorry.” Lockwood gives a sheepish chuckle, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Got to… got to remain calm, right, forgot about that. Er… so, what does this tell us?”

“Well, she’s not a Lurker, that’s certain,” George says dully. “And I’m willing to bet she didn’t actually die in her sleep. Which, now that I think of it, is definitely a concern I voiced to you as we were leaving the interview…”

Lockwood flaps his hand in George’s face. “Let’s not worry about that now. So, if she’s not a Lurker, then what is she?” He says it with a bite of impatience, as though he’s frustrated at having to ask such an obvious question of them. George wants so desperately to give a nasty retort, but he stops short when he sees a flash of fear and guilt in Lockwood’s eyes. Of course, Lockwood knows what she is, but he doesn’t want to be the one to admit it. 

“That’s a Changer,” Holly supplies, looking carefully away from the two of them. “Their grandson reported a faint… faint shadow hovering in this corner.” She gestures to the hole they’d ripped in the floorboards a few minutes previously. “And we assumed it would be a Lurker. But that… is definitely a Changer.” She swallows. “A dangerous, malevolent Type Two, usually born of h-horrifically traumatic deaths… capable of taking on different forms and… and very difficult to subdue for long without sealing its Source,” she finishes quietly, glancing over at George, who’s rubbing his spectacles furiously on his shirt again.

“Okay…” Lockwood considers, brushing his hair back from his face. “But why this particular form, do you think? Any ideas?”

They’re silent, staring at him almost incredulously.

“Maybe she always wanted to be a chicken?” he presses. “Live a simple, carefree life, and now in death, she’s granted herself that desperate wish? Maybe she had a beloved pet chicken, named it Beaky or something – 

“All I know is that if you’d given me the time to _find out how she died_ ,” George says through clenched teeth, “we wouldn’t have to speculate quite so wildly at such an _inopportune moment_.”

Lockwood falls silent, looking determinedly away from both of them. George takes a deep breath.

“My guess…” he continues, “… when Auntie Edna discovered her body, it probably wasn’t… completely intact.” 

Holly’s eyes widen in horror. “You don’t mean…”

“I do,” George gives her a grim nod. “The Bitters… they seemed shifty to me from the beginning. I suspected from the first that she didn’t just die suddenly out of natural causes… my original thought was that dear old Uncle Daniel poisoned her before he and his wife left for the city. But… I mean the Changer we met at the Bickerstaff house…” He sees Lockhart’s shoulders tense at the memory. “Wilberforce… when he died, his body was…” no one seems to be stopping him, so George plunges on. “… you know… slowly devoured by rats.” Holly claps a hand over her mouth as Lockwood turns to face George, grimacing. 

“Well,” Lockwood sighs, sweeping a hand through his hair again. “Chickens are… voracious creatures.” 

“What do we do, Lockwood?” Holly’s voice is faint, her eyes flitting rapidly between Lockwood and George.

“We have one set of heavy chains, and only because I insisted we pack them,” George sighs, nudging the chain with his toe. The chicken tilts its head to the other side, making them all jump. “Only Lockwood brought his rapier,” George continues after a moment, eyeing the chicken nervously. “And we have a load of salt and iron bombs and one magnesium flare. Because we thought this would be a Lurker.” He glares at Lockwood, who mumbles something dismissive and turns to contemplate the chicken.

“Okay,” Lockwood says after a minute, still staring at the chicken. “Okay… what if we just… threw the flare and ran for it?”

“We can’t set the shack on fire, Lockwood,” George sighs. “It’s made entirely of old wood, it’d catch far too quickly.”

“And that wouldn’t destroy the Source,” Holly adds. “And probably that would just make it really mad.” 

“Right, right,” Lockwood nods, turning back to them. “Then… I suppose the only thing to do is to find and seal the Source. I mean…” Lockwood gestures at the chicken behind him, “she’s barely moved all this time. And I’d say the chains are pretty secure, heavy enough to hold her off. So… just keep prying up the floorboards until we find… whatever it is, I suppose.” He draws his rapier and turns to face the chicken again. Its gaze is fixed on the sword, but still it remains unmoving. 

Holly hefts her crowbar and wedges it beneath another floorboard. She pries it up with a resounding _crack_ and in that same instant there’s a horrific _SHRIEEEEK_ and a wall of acid green ectoplasm erupts before them, held at bay by the chains. They reel from the shock of it, Holly and George slamming into the wall of the shack, clutching their heads, and Lockwood losing his balance and falling flat on his back in the middle of their circle, rapier clattering on the floor. Their ears are ringing, the air around them throbbing furiously with psychic energy. 

The blast shifted the chains about a foot inward so that their circle is now lopsided. Holly somehow manages to scramble to her feet and hastily begins to fix the chains, then freezes, staring at the bed across the room. “ _Lockwood_ …”

The chicken has rematerialized in the same spot by the bed, stock-still, staring at them, eyes gleaming. Odd behavior for a chicken.

“If that chicken intends to run at us every time we try to pull out the Source…” Holly begins.

“… we’re never going to get at it,” George concludes, nudging Lockwood’s shoulder with his foot. Lockwood looks up at him from the floor, and George is startled at the expression on his face. His eyes are gleaming much too brightly, his mouth is thin, he looks all at once fragile and resolute, miserable and frantic. He looks far too much like the fourteen-year-old boy he is.

Lockwood rubs furiously at his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. “Lucy should be here,” he murmurs, so quietly George can barely make it out and Holly can politely pretend not to have heard. Lockwood meets George’s eyes. “She’d know, George… Lucy could tell us how she died. She’d have heard her voice long before any of this happened… she could talk to her… she’d get us out of this mess.” Lockwood trails off, staring beseechingly at George. It’s been two months since Lucy walked out on them. George knows exactly what Lockwood isn’t saying, what he can’t bring himself to say. 

There’s silence for a few more moments, Lockwood on the floor, George standing resolutely over him, Holly tactfully keeping a close eye on the unmoving chicken. Then Lockwood springs to his feet, startling George as he whirls to face him. There’s a dangerous gleam in his eye.

“ _Lockwood_ …” George begins, his voice dripping with dread. The look on Lockwood’s face warns him against continuing. “Lockwood _don’t_ …” he tries again, but his voice fails. It’s been two months since Lucy walked out on them. George knows exactly what Lockwood isn’t saying. Behind them, Holly wordlessly pulls a silver seal from one of her pockets, giving George a distressed glance over Lockwood’s shoulder. George squares his shoulders.

“When I give the signal,” Lockwood says in a low voice, “start prying up the boards again. I’m confident this is where the Source is, now all we have to do is widen the hole and pull it out, whatever it is.” He turns from George, nods to Holly, and picks up his rapier, walking to the edge of the iron circle. He leans forward on his toes; the chicken takes a single step forward. He looks back at them with a small smile. 

“ _Now!_ ”

George turns to the hole as Lockwood leaps over the chains and an awful _SHRIEEEEK_ rends the air; then Holly is beside him, tossing the seal onto the floor and frantically jamming her crowbar underneath another floorboard and heaving. There’s a _CRACK_ and another _SHRIEEEEK_ and the metallic hum of Lockwood’s blade as he slices through the frigid air gathering around them, and George fights every urge to turn and plunge into the fray alongside him. He hefts his crowbar and wedges it beneath a floorboard and pulls it up, it’s been _two months_ since Lucy left them, _CRACK. SCREEEEECH!_ It’s been _two months – CRACK –_ of Lockwood flinging himself at ghosts with alarming ease, and he’s been _reckless – CRACK –_ and _stupid_ and _distressed – CRACK –_ and George’s heart is pounding in his ears and he can’t be sure whose screams are bouncing off the walls behind him. 

“ _There!_ ” Holly screams, and George sees it as she wrenches away a final floorboard, a glint of gold in the dark hole they’ve ripped in the floor. He drops to his knees to reach for it and a gust of frigid wind smacks into him, but he grips the splintered edges of the rough hole with his other hand and leans in further as the wind whips around him. And then he’s got it, something cold and smooth in his hand and tosses it to the floor and hauls himself up as Holly throws the silver net over it – 

Silence. The wind and the howling and the screeching vanish, leaving their ears ringing. They turn to see Lockwood slumped against the bed, but his chest is heaving and he’s tapping his foot against the wall. Holly exhales and runs to him, dropping to her knees beside him. George hesitates for a moment and then follows, hovering uncertainly over her shoulder. None of Lockwood’s limbs look blue or swollen, but he’s clutching his wrist and gritting his teeth and his face is scratched and _god_ George really wants to punch him, no matter how exhausted and defeated he looks. 

He walks back to their circle instead, stepping carefully over shattered salt and iron bombs, and gathers up the Source. Under the heap of the silver net, he can see what looks like a golden chicken’s egg, glinting in the moonlight filtering through the slats of the roof. He has no energy to wonder what it might mean. The silver net is far too big for it; he fishes a silver-glass case from his bag and carefully transfers the egg from the net to the case, shutting it quickly and then, after a moment’s thought, wrapping the case in the net, just to be safe. 

“George?” Holly’s voice is behind him; he shoves the bundle back into his bag and stands to face her, Lockwood hovering sheepishly behind her. Holly has wrapped his wrist with his scarf, and he clutches it to his chest. George meets his eyes, and Lockwood opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out.

It’s been two months since Lucy left them, and there’s a gaping silence where she should have been and a hole at Lockwood’s side. 

“To the furnaces, then?” Holly asks, looking uncertainly between them.

“I’m off to the archives, actually,” George replies, looking at Lockwood. “Look up more information on the girl. Her name, for starters, and maybe there’ll be something about how she died. We may have to call the police on the old couple in the morning.” 

Lockwood nods. “Right, then Holly and I’ll make the trip to Clerkenwell. I’ll… see you at home?”

George pulls the bundle back out from his bag and hands it to Holly, who takes it gingerly. “Yeah, see you,” he says and stalks out the door into the cold night. 

George doesn’t stop until he reaches the road, where he finds a telephone box and calls a night cab. He leans against the glass, staring into the darkness. She’s probably somewhere out there, facing off against someone else’s vengeful spirit by herself. One of these days, they’re bound to bump into her at the furnace, or maybe at the DEPRAC offices, or even out on a case… and George doesn’t know what he’d do if they did. 

He decides against the archives as the night cab pulls up and just tells the driver to take him back to Portland Row. It's only when he slumps in the back seat that his body seems to register what they'd just been through, and a wave of exhaustion swoops over him. George rides back to Portland Row half-asleep with his face pressed against the window, thinking of furious spirits and screams and the dangerous gleam in Lockwood's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got really long and it took me a while to edit! Hopefully that won't happen with the rest of them, but I can't make any promises.


	6. Drooling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Arthur?"
> 
> "Hm?"
> 
> "Why... are you staring at me like that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I broke my laptop and lost what I'd been working on, but I finally got back into this, and I'll be posting the rest, hopefully regularly, from now on!
> 
> Day 6: Drooling. Rating: General Audiences. Fandom: Merlin. Merlin/Arthur Pendragon.

As the night deepens, it becomes impossible to trace the patterns in the tangled branches of the trees spread above them, so Arthur turns his gaze to Merlin, stretched out beside the fire, sound asleep, his coat folded beneath his head as a pillow. How the man can sleep so readily Arthur doesn’t understand; his own shoulders hold far too much tension to allow him that luxury. Not even Merlin's incessant prattle could distract Arthur from their looming destination, the weight of it sinking further into his stomach the deeper they journeyed into the forest. He can't sleep, not with such a daunting quest hanging over him like that, not when his head feels like it's filled with a swarm of bees. 

Arthur smirks to himself, remembering the astounded look on Merlin's face when Arthur suggested that Merlin should sleep for a few hours while he kept watch. Merlin wasn't very useful to begin with, but an exhausted Merlin was even more useless, and Arthur had told him so, though it did nothing to wipe the astonishment off his face. He would say Merlin looked as though Arthur had just hit him round the head, but Arthur hit Merlin round the head far too often for Merlin to be so stunned by it. No, Arthur thinks, amused, Merlin looked as stupefied as if Arthur had just kissed him. 

Arthur frowns. Why did his heart just leap like that? It was the fire, springing up suddenly and startling him. Yes, that was it. 

He inches closer to the fire so that the warmth bathes his face and arms and draws his legs to his chest, resting his chin on his knees. He watches the even rise and fall of Merlin’s chest; in the silent forest, he can just barely hear Merlin’s breathing underneath the whisper of the fire. Merlin is still and peaceful in sleep, almost unnaturally so, for by day he’s fidgety and jumpy and always stumbling over tables and loose flagstones and his own feet (and Arthur’s, too). Arthur doesn't realize what's different for a moment, but then he sees that the tension Merlin carries by day has left his neck and shoulders, and he’s more relaxed than Arthur’s ever seen him. Merlin is far too tense all the time, Arthur thinks, far too stiff and anxious and harried, even accounting for the onslaught of errands from him and Gaius that Merlin must continuously attend to. He only ever relaxes his shoulders when he’s laughing at Arthur, or when they’re bickering, but in many of their moments together he seems to always be on edge. If Arthur didn’t know Merlin all too well, he’d suspect Merlin of guarding some great and terrible secret.

But it’s an absurd thing to imagine, and Arthur waves the thought away. After all, Arthur’s the one burdened with a grave secret, a secret he suspects he hasn’t guarded quite as closely as his father would have liked him to. A strange sort of quiet seems to have settled over the Forests of Ascetir, as if the whole wood is watching their journey with bated breath. Because they seek the Cup of Life, that fabled treasure of awesome and terrible power, and though he threatened Merlin with swift and unmerciful death should he come to know of their true destination, Arthur rather thought Merlin had known where they were going before they even started. The Cup had brought Leon, Arthur’s best knight and one of his truest friends, back from just beyond the brink of death, and the thought made his father livid, he knows, because magic of that sort is to be despised. And so, his father had sent him to infiltrate Cenred’s territory and take the cup from the Druids, and he’d asked him to do so alone. But, of course, “alone” always includes Merlin. 

Merlin shifts slightly in his sleep, turning his face more towards the fire. Alone always includes Merlin, Arthur thinks. It’s odd to consider that he’s been without Merlin for most of his life and yet within months of knowing each other, Arthur couldn’t bear to imagine being without him. It didn’t even cross his mind not to take Merlin, his woefully unskilled manservant, on a mission so dangerous and secretive that Uther wouldn’t entrust it to his best knights. And Merlin, what could Merlin do against bandits and rogues and druids and Cenred’s knights? He'd take a few pathetic swings with his sword before hiding behind a tree somewhere, somehow emerging unscathed once Arthur had finished the fight. But somehow, with Merlin around, Arthur always feels quite secure. It’s as though Merlin’s his good-luck charm of sorts; whatever they’ve faced together, they’ve always made it through. By now it feels wrong to go anywhere without him. Arthur smiles to himself at the memory; Merlin even managed to follow him on his quest to retrieve the trident of the Fisher King. Arthur can't do anything alone, it seems. But maybe that isn't such a bad thing.

Arthur doesn’t understand how Merlin could be so important. No one who’d ever encountered Merlin could really understand that. He left allies and enemies alike confused. But when Merlin was poisoned, even the king admitted his death would be regrettable, even if he refused to let Arthur do anything to stop it. Of course, Arthur had ridden out to save him immediately. He shudders at the memories, of the beasts and the darkness and the wicked sorceress. And then as he climbed through the cave a strange light had come to him, and – it was an absurd thought, but it brought him some comfort anyway – Arthur had felt as though Merlin’s spirit was with him, climbing alongside him. Glancing at Merlin’s spindly arms folded across his chest, Arthur chuckles to himself. The thought of Merlin pulling himself up a sheer cliffside with those arms of his is ridiculous – he’d surely plummet to his death in seconds.

And then the image of Merlin plummeting into that awful chasm upends Arthur’s stomach, and he shivers despite the warmth of the fire and the summer night. Merlin sighs in his sleep and draws his knees closer to his chest. 

Arthur doesn't understand how Merlin could be so important, and yet, it feels as though if Merlin were to leave his side, the whole of Camelot would be irrevocably changed. Arthur watches the waning firelight flicker across Merlin's face, suddenly very aware of his own heartbeat. The realization swells in his chest that he doesn't know what he would do, who he would be, without Merlin in his life. He's startled when his eyes begin to sting. He may not understand it, but he knows it, he knows that Merlin is so, so important. It tugs at him, that thought, it whirls in his mind, that Merlin is so important, that he'd give his life for Merlin, that he'd give his kingdom, everything he has, because without Merlin, there would be no kingdom, and that must mean that Merlin is everything to him.

Merlin. Merlin is everything to him. Arthur realizes in the same second that his eyes have not left Merlin for what seems like hours and that he'd like nothing more at this very moment than to brush his thumb along the shadow under Merlin's cheekbone.

"I knew I should've just gone to sleep," Arthur mutters.

Something snaps in the forest around them, a bird wheels into the air, shrieking, and Merlin's eyes fly open. For a moment, they seem to glow a vivid gold, reflecting the fire, which has suddenly sprung to twice its size. In the next instant, they've returned to their brilliant blue. And they're locked with Arthur's own, wide in confusion.

"Arthur."

"Hm?"

"Why… are you staring at me like that?"

Arthur straightens in surprise, Merlin scrambles into a sitting position. Arthur clears his throat, assuming what he hopes is a grave, neutral expression. "Like… Like what?"

Merlin grins, his eyes dancing. "Like you're about to kiss me."

"WHAT?!" Arthur flings a handful of leaves at Merlin's head. He ducks, laughing. "Absolutely - Merlin, you - never say that - you… I was… You were -"

Arthur is very aware that his mouth is hanging open and that none of the words racing through his mind are ones he should let tumble out of his mouth right now. I'm trying to figure out how you could possibly mean so much to me, Merlin. How you could be everything. How I could love you so much. He snaps his mouth shut. The words pull at his heart.

"What? Arthur, what is it?" Merlin frowns at him now, and it takes far more concentration than Arthur thinks it should to keep himself from reaching out to touch a finger to his pursed lips.

"I - you were drooling." Merlin looks aghast, and Arthur's shoulders relax. He hitches the appropriate smirk onto his face. "Yeah, you were drooling… buckets, Merlin, it was frankly quite fascinating," he snorts as Merlin swipes at his face with his sleeve. Just for good measure, he flings another handful of leaves at Merlin's head. Merlin looks properly affronted. Good, Arthur thinks, trying to calm his pounding heart. Back to normal.

"Anyway!" Arthur clears his throat again. "Now that you're awake, Merlin, you can take the rest of the watch! We've got a few hours before dawn, I need to be well-rested." Arthur reaches for the saddle-bag with their winter clothes in it and plants his face into it, turning his back to Merlin. Merlin mutters something under his breath.

"What was that, Merlin?"

"Just calling you a clotpole, sire." That's more like it.

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever just thought about someone for a while and realized that they just mean so much to you, and you just love them so much?
> 
> Hopefully I'll be updating more regularly from now on! I have more Merthur in store :D


End file.
